


Saudade

by QueSeraAwesome



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Awkward Flirting, Chores, Chorus Fic, First Dates, Friendship and Companionship all around, Incidental Tuckington and Docnut, Jealousy, M/M, Moving On, Mutually Unrequited, Pining, Possibly Unrequited Love, Sad Grimmons, Unhappy Ending, canon-typical fatphobia, canon-typical homophia, for everybody but Simmons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 20:52:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6625852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueSeraAwesome/pseuds/QueSeraAwesome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the moment before he's gone, before he's really gone for good, that hurts worst. </p><p>Simmons would know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saudade

That guy’s back again.

Simmons glares at him, Fed white with crimson accents. Not even red. No, no one could possibly feel right about calling that just red, it’s crimson. Whoop-de-do. Someone had to be _special_. Except Simmons can’t even remember his name. Or his rank. Or which unit he’s with.

But what he _can_ remember is there’s no way the guy’s needed something from the armory every day this week. Every day. Sometimes twice.

“Can I help you, Private…” Shit. He’d hoped it’d just slip off the tongue when he got to the end of the sentence. Some people just have forgettable faces— this guy’s got a forgettable name. Fuck. “Private?”

“Um, yeah,” the guy stammers. He doesn’t dispute the rank. “Um, I need to turn in a requisitions request?”

He’s shorter than Simmons, by more than enough to make it easy to glare down at him, but he’s still taller than Grif by a few inches. Broader than Simmons too, not like that’s hard, given that Simmons had long ago accepted his beanpole status.

“You can’t possibly be out of ammo already,” Simmons snaps. “That’s the third time this week.”

“Not for me, sir,” the Fed says, standing straighter. “For the whole unit. Sergeant Joannes wants to make sure everyone’s fully armed and ready for—“

“For what?!” Simmons sputters. “The only unit’s we even have outside the city are—“

“I can handle this one, Simmons,” Grif says from behind him. Simmons closes his eyes and bites back a sigh. He thought the fatass was taking a nap in the back room again.

Grif pushes past him, and seeing that he’s both a. shorter than Simmons with a lower center of gravity and b. has more mass than him, any resistance on Simmons’s part is basically theoretical. Fed guy visibly sighs with relief, his shoulders loosening.

“Hey, Captain Grif,” he says. There’s something in his voice Simmons doesn’t like. “Good to see you again.”

Simmons glares at him. Simmons glares at everyone. And then everything, just for good measure. He crosses his arms, just to make sure his point gets across. The Fed scoots away an inch, so he decides to call that a win.

“Back again?” says Grif, considerably more friendly than Simmons had been.

“Just to bother you,” the guy laughs, “and maybe to get me out of endless oil-changing duty.”

“Guess I can let you hang out for a bit, then. So what were you— Oh, wait, hold on—“

He reaches up and— and for no reason at all, like it’s perfectly normal, _takes off his helmet._

“That’s better,” Griff sighs, eyes closed. “Think my AC fans are fucked again.”

“The fuck are you doing?” Simmons hisses.

“It’s fuckin’ hot in here, dude,” Grif gripes, tugging at the collar of his undersuit. Fed guy’s eyes flick down and back up. And then down again and slower back up.

“I might be able to fix that,” he says. “I’m pretty good with my hands. And machines. Good with machines. Like helmets.”

“Might take you up on that some time, dude,” Grif says, smirk hiding in the corner of his mouth. “For Christ sake, Simmons stop hovering! We’re inside. No one’s gonna try and shoot me in the fuckin’ head.”

“…That is true,” Fed guy agrees. After a moment’s hesitation Fed guy’s hands come up and he pulls his helmet off as well.

Straight dark hair falls around his face and over his eyes, slightly shaggy from lack of a recent cut. He brushes it out of his eyes and half-smiles and— fuck. Fucker’s got dimples. They upgrade him from passable to reasonably attractive, objectively. Simmons grinds his teeth.

“Weeeelll,” Grif drawls, shifting to lean a hip against the desk. “What can I do for you, dude?”

“Requisition form,” the Fed says suddenly, as if just remembering why he’s here. He waves his sheaf of papers. “Sorry, it might take a while. It’s kind of a big order.”

“I can handle a big order.” Grif’s subtle (at least subtler than that line) about eyeing the guy up in a manner that's absolutely unprofessional, but Simmons catches him anyway.

“That’s a lot of requisition forms,” Simmons says, eyeing the stack of papers.

Grif shoots him a look like _Do you mind?_

“Lieutenant Bitters saw which way I was going and asked if I could turn it in for him, since they’re all getting held late for training today,” he says. “And I’ve got a buddy in one of the nursing units under Dr. Grey, and she always keeps them so busy—“

“What are you, like everyone’s requisitions go-for?” Simmons interrupts.

“Uh,” the guy stammers, running his fingers through his hair, a nervous tick. “I just don’t mind helping out, you know?

“Stop by any time,” Grif says, booting Simmons out of the way with a hip check. “Good, like, work ethic and shit.”

“The fuck do you know about good work ethic?” Simmons laughs.

“Hey, Simmons, why don’t you get some of that ammo the guy’s looking for?” Grif says, but his expression says _Who shat on your calculator this morning, go the fuck away_. “I don’t think I remember where it is.”

“Bullshit,” Simmons mutters to himself as he heads to the back room. He leaves the door open. “Probably used it as a pillow for your thick fuckin’ head.”

“This is a lot of shit,” Grif is saying from the front. “I’m not making you take all this shit back to those guys,” Grif says. “Bitters and your buddy can just come get it themselves, we’ll have it ready for them. Or Simmons will have it ready for them.”

Whatever the guy replies, Simmons can’t make it out this far back in the storage room. Just the buzzing drone of their voices, the rise and fall of speech without any of the meaning. Some of the meaning. They sound happy, or something.

Simmons absolutely doesn’t jump when the drone breaks off with a sudden crack of laughter out of Grif. It’s one hell of a guffaw, a deep belly laugh. It almost sounds like it hurts.

He’s finally gets all the boxes collected, three of them stacked precariously in his arms, forcing him to back open the door.

He’s really glad he’s still making his way through the door, face turned away when he hears what they’re talking about.

“There’s this really great doughnut shop down on fifty-seventh,” the guy’s saying. Simmons doesn’t even bother saying anything like, “Doughnuts, in the afternoon?” because he knows Grif better than that. “You should really check it out.”

Simmons groans internally and nearly bites through his lip, but he sets the boxes down without slamming them so one out of three isn’t bad. Neither of them even acknowledge he’s here, the boxes are here, Fed Guy can go away now.

“I’m free by Beta shift,” Grif replies. “They still open then?”

“Yeah, I could even show you where it is,” he’s making a good try at not looking hopeful, and completely failing. “I could meet you at the motorpool around sixteen hundred hours, if you’d like. By the loading dock?”

“I’ll see you at sixteen hundred.”

“Great!” the guy repeats, smiling like Grif just handed him peace on Chorus and a million dollars wrapped up in a bow. “I’ll see you then!”

He picks up the boxes with ease, two under one arm and the third tucked against his hip. Simmons hates him. Neither of them say anything until the guy’s out of the armory and out of sight.

“What the hell was that?” Simmons sputters.

“Successful date acquisition,” Grif replies, stretching his arms over his head and stretching. “Seduction plan part three complete.”

“Date?” Simmons hates the way his voice cracks, “What the fuck, Grif, you’re not gay!”

“Pansexual,” Grif drawls and starts rolling his shoulders, like he’d actually been doing physical work. “I gotta explain it to you? ‘Cause it’s got nothing to do with pans.”

“I know what it means,” Simmons retorts, flushing deeply under his armor. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Did you not hear Tucker earlier?” Grif scoffs. “I wasn’t telling you jackasses anything. Confided in Tucker one time and look what he goes and does. Nah, man, some things you guys don’t need to know. Besides, why the fuck would you want to know?”

“Never mind, forget it,” Simmons snaps. There’s more important matters to attend to. “Seduction plan? Part three?”

“Hell yeah, man,” Grif says. “Been working on this since I caught him checkin’ me out last week.”

Simmons snorts in digust.

“Well, you sure have a lot of ass to check out.”

Simmons is pretty sure that was meant to be an insult, but he’s not entirely sure it succeeded.

“Do you even know this guy’s name?” he asks.

“Fred,” Grif answers instantly. “That was Seduction Plan part one. Dude, he’s been coming in all week, you don’t remember his name?”

“I’m not a people person,” Simmons snarks.

“Well, ain’t that the truth.”

Simmons stares off the in the direction the Fed guy left in. Try as he might, he can’t make the pieces fit. That guy. The Fed. Grif. It’s like trying to jam pieces from two different puzzles together in his head. It doesn’t work, it’s not pretty, and it kind of hurts to think about.

“But why you?”

“Guess his type’s fat jackasses,” Grif replies, unconcerned. He still looks extremely pleased with himself. “Lucky me.”

Simmons makes a disgusted noise. Grif doesn’t even seem to notice. There’s something that might be called a bounce in his step, if he were anyone else, that is.

“Anyway, I’m gonna go take a nap,” Grif says. “Save my energy, y’know? Might need it later. Have fun minding the ranch by yourself, bud.”

“I think I can handle it,” Simmons deadpans, waving his arms at the utter lack of people in front of the desk. “And what energy, fatass? I don’t think I’ve seen you have any energy in, like, years.”

“That’s why I gotta save it up,” Grif tosses over his shoulder as he heads off toward the barracks. “Later, dude!”

Simmons just sighs and shakes his head. He’s getting an ache right at the base of his skull, rubs at the back of his neck uselessly. He must have slept on it wrong. He hasn’t been sleeping well this week. He can still hear Grif’s footsteps, heading away.

“Hey, Grif?”

Simmons looks up just in time to see Grif wave a half-hearted goodbye, halfway out the door.

_“Now, what did you want to tell me?”_

_“I **seem** to have **forgotten**.”_

He’d been grateful he hadn’t said anything later. For a long time, he’d been grateful.

*

Around half-til sixteen-hundred hours, Lopez and Donut finally show to take over armory duty. Simmons doesn’t even look back. If he keeps moving, he might be able to get back to the barracks before Grif leaves for his…for his thing.

He has to pass the motorpool to get to their barracks. It’s usually quiet this time of the afternoon, but today the lot is bustling with activity, looks like a team just came back— yes, as he comes around a jeep he can see the twin aqua figures from here, Sarge’s voice easily carrying across the distance Simmons would stop to offer Sarge a hearty congratulations and praise the undoubtedly inspired tactics used by his CO, but he’s on a mission. He picks up the pace a bit as he draws near enough to overhear them— no time to get stopped today.

Apparently the mission had gone well; they even brought back prisoners. Tucker’s fluid with excitement, practically dancing around Wash in circles as he recounts the blow-by-blow. Wash’s helmet swings back and forth as he tries to follow Tucker; you can tell by the tilt of his helmet that he’s smiling. Simmons waves an acknowledgment at them, not like they’ll notice.

“To bad you’re stuck babysitting. How the LT’s doing, anyway?”

“They’re…improving,” Wash says. “If I could get him to quit screwing around, your kid might actually not be that bad.”

“Whoah there, Agent Supernanny,” Tucker screeches to a halt. “Not my kid. No. I am not accepting responsibility for Palomo, no way. Take it back, man.”

“I’m just saying, he’s under your command,” Wash replies, and holy shit is he teasing Tucker? “That does kind of make him your—“

“ _Your_ kid,” Tucker interrupts. “You’re the guy ordering him around’n shit all the time now, your job, no take-backs. Besides, I already got a kid and he is a million times more awesome than Palomo.”

Simmons rolls his eyes. Those two have always been obnoxious, but really? He hurries on, anxious to get back to the barracks.

“Yeah, but I’m your best LT, right?” he hears Tucker ask before he’s out of earshot.

He reaches Carolina and Sarge, ready to make his excuses, just as they turn heel and start heading for the mess. Sarge is needling Carolina about something, jabbing at her ribs with his elbow in a friendly way and raising an eyebrow in way he probably thinks is sly. Carolina laughs indulgently and cuffs him in the shoulder, breaking into a jog. Sarge makes a noise of indignation before hurrying after her. He didn’t even notice Simmons was there.

No one seems to notice he’s there, people and vehicles alike straying into his path and bumping into him. It’s only by jerking to a stop and dodging out of the way of being run over by blue. He glances over his shoulder and sees Andersmith, half a step behind Caboose and taking notes on a pad eagerly.

“Snack time has to come before Nap Time, not after,” Caboose is saying as seriously as he is possibly capable of. “This is very important, Andersmith. We cannot just go making up times.”

“No, sir!” Andersmith agrees, stylus flicking back and forth over the pad. “A regimented schedule is necessary for unit cohesion!”

“Yes. And also orange juice.”

Simmons rolls his eyes. Practically everyone’s finding a new bestest best friend in this shithole of a place.

He passes by the garage they’ve got set aside for alien vehicle storage, and he catches sight of Donut bickering with whatever shade of O’Malley’s left in Doc’s brain. They’ve been at it for three days; O’Malley keeps interrupting their movie nights and none of the three are pleased about it.

“If you don’t want interruptions, stop choosing such disgusting drivel,” O’Malley sneers. “Ugh. I could vomit from those gooey love stories. Disgusting. Entertainment should include more explosions! Mayhem!”

Donut plants his hands on his hips defiantly while they wait for the maniacal laughter to stop. Even Simmons knows better to threaten Date Night when Donut gets like that.

“Oh, c’mon, O’Malley!” Doc wheedles. “I bet if you just tried watching one through to the end—“

“Mayhem! Mayhem, I say! Ever story needs more bedlam, bodies in the streets, the occasional use of nuclear explosives. And an excellent villain! Everyone knows a good story requires a good villain!”

“We might be able to work with that,” Doc says, tapping his chin.

“I don’t see why you two can’t just skip to the sex like normal people,” O’Malley gripes.

“It’s called romance,” Donut retorts. “Never heard of it?”

“I’m the byproduct of your mental distress due to your quite fortunate encounter with the quote ‘future cubes,’ and also the lingering memories and code left in your brain by a fragmented artificial intelligence program composed of pure hatred and evil,” O’Malley snaps. “Of course I’ve never heard of it!”

“How do you feel about Dr. Horrible’s Sing Along Blog ?”

“Where does it rate on my scale of evil?”

“I’ll pull up the inforgraphic,” Doc sighs and then Simmons is past them and they’re gone.

He’s made it halfway across the motorpool when he sees him. It’s hard not to spot orange.

Grif’s strolling along the south side of the motorpool, looks all the world for a guy just out walking through the city, thumbs tucked in to his pockets, steps easy and free. Simmons would almost believe it if he weren’t still in armor, his helmet dangling from his fingertips at his side. Armonia’s still not safe enough for people to walk around without armor, but more and more you see people going bare face, helmet within reaching distance, of course. He’s tied back his hair. It’s hard to tell from this far away, but he may have even combed it.

Simmons glances at his HUD’s chronometer. 16:10. Fed’s late. _Ha_. Across the blacktop Grif leans his head back into the sun, the picture of contentment. Maybe this doesn’t have to be such a bad thing after all. Simmons just has to… He just has to—

Simmons turns and looks back over the motorpool. He can still see some of his friends, barely. The hubbub of a returning team has died down, brightly colored armor splitting off in pairs of twos and threes and walking away.

When he turns around again the Fed guy’s jogging up, looking out of breath. Grif’s waving a hand, like no big deal. Grif’s got this big wide smile when he really means it, and he’s wearing it now, looking up at this guy. His date. He doesn’t have to crick his head so far back as when he’s looking up at Simmons. The guy smiles back, runs his fingers through his hair again. Nervous. Simmons wishes he could hear what they were talking about.

His stomach lurches, caving in inside him. Must be time for dinner.

The guy tips his head in a “let’s go” gesture and he and Grif head off, side by side.

There’s this memory that haunts Simmons. Snow everywhere and he’s running, he’s reaching out. Grif’s fingertips grasping for his, sliding away, back towards the cliff. He’d been yelling, he’s sure of that, maybe they’d both been yelling. He can’t remember what he said. He’d been so focused— the cliff was yawning closer and closer, and he’d almost had him. Fingertips brushing, not enough to get a grip. He’d been trying to catch Grif’s wrist, desperate for something to grab onto, anything at all, and then, and then he didn’t have him anymore.

Grif’s hand slipped through his grasp, and that’s was the most horrible part. That was the moment that hurt the most, the moment that scares him most even now, that fraction of a second between losing him and watching him disappear over the cliff. That moment’s suspended in his mind like a popcorn kernel in his teeth, too painful to even try to pry out. Grif had been looking at him, looking to him, hand still outstretched, even though it was over. Simmons couldn’t get to him. He wasn’t going to get to Grif in time. Simmons’s HUD was splattered with melting snow, he was still sliding forward after him, trying to grab him, but it was over. It was already over.

It was the moment before Grif disappeared that hurt the most, when it was just a matter of gravity now. Nothing to do but feel his heart beat time until he was gone.

He’s levering off his helmet before he has time to think about why. The lot smells like metal and gasoline. There’s a breeze coming from somewhere, carrying the smell of wet pavement with it. It had rained earlier. On Chorus it always feels like it was just raining.

Simmons watches them go, backlit by the afternoon sunlight. That Fed guy’s head is tilted down towards Grif, he must be listening to something he’s saying. It almost looks affectionate. Standing too close, the knuckles of their gloves must be brushing like that.

They keep walking away, they’re blurring into inky smears against the light, fading until he can only make out the one blotch of them together, squinting against the sunlight.

He watches until his eyes begin to hurt.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr.queseraawesome.com  
> written for an iteration of the angst war  
> prompt was "simmons has to watch Grif fall in love with someone else."


End file.
